Lee Child - The Midnight Line

Reacher saw him knock, and he heard the sound, loud and clear, a fraction delayed by the distance, like a mismatched movie soundtrack.

He saw Bramall step back politely.

No one came to the door.

No movement anywhere.

Bramall knocked again.

The same no reaction.

He walked back and got in the truck, and said, “This place is empty.”

Reacher said, “How do you feel about going in?”

“It’s all closed up.”

“We could break a window.”

“Legally we have to ask ourselves if the county owns it now. Which it might, officially. Because of the unpaid taxes. Breaking into county property is a big step. You can’t fight city hall.”

“Maybe you smelled a suspicious smell, or thought you heard something. Like a despairing cry. The kind of thing that would justify a warrantless search. Did you?”

“No,” Bramall said.

“You’re retired,” Reacher said. “You don’t have to stick to FBI bullshit anymore.”

“What would be the army approach? Set the place on fire?”

“No, that would be the Marine Corps approach. The army would conduct a careful survey of the exterior, and by great good fortune would discover a pane of glass previously broken by persons unknown, at a previous time, maybe long ago, or even just recently, which if true would reasonably suggest an ongoing emergency inside, which in turn would justify a good look around. I don’t think the Supreme Court could argue with that.”

“Previously broken either recently or a long time ago?”

“Obviously any sounds you hear in real time will be me, accidentally stepping on previously broken glass left lying on the porch ever since the unknown previous incident. That can sound very like a freshly breaking window. It’s a common illusion.”

“That’s a standard FBI trick, too. We weren’t all bullshit.”

“Some of you came to us for training.”

“And some of you came to us.”

“I’m going to conduct a careful survey,” Reacher said.

He got out of the car.

Chapter 18

It was a big house, but an easy survey, because the porch ran all the way around the structure, flat and level and true, and it served up all the first-floor doors and windows at a convenient height for inspection. Reacher started at the front, with the door Bramall had knocked on, which was a solid wooden affair, locked tight, and way too much effort to break down. So he moved on, to a hallway window, which would have taken no effort at all to get through, except it was on the front of the house, and even in the uninhabited middle of nowhere some ancient part of his brain sounded a warning. The front was never good. Not during, and not even afterward. Why leave after-action evidence in plain view? Not that there would be much. A discreet punched-out hole in the glass, about the size of a big man’s elbow, and a slit insect screen rippling in the breeze. That would be all. Not much. But maybe enough to catch a passerby’s eye. Always safer if that kind of thing happened later, not sooner, for all kinds of reasons.

The back was better.

Reacher walked down the side of the house, past five more windows all the same as the front. Which made it likely the windows in back would be all the same, too. Some kind of a unifying design theme. Or some kind of a big discount for a bulk purchase. But either way was good news. Windows like that were easy.

He turned the corner, and the first window he came to was broken.

It had a hole punched through it, about the size of a big man’s elbow.

The insect screen was slit.

The broken glass was dirty, and the screen was mildewed. A year, maybe more. At least four seasons of wind and weather. Inside was a kitchen. Countertops that should have been shiny were dull with dust. Beyond the kitchen was a dining area, all gloom and shadows.

He walked the long way around the porches, and back to the car. Bramall had gotten out again. He was standing in a no-man’s-land patch of dirt about thirty feet from the house.

Reacher said, “I found a busted window.”

“Nicely done,” Bramall said. “I didn’t hear a thing.”

“For real. An actual busted window. Previously broken by persons unknown. A year or more ago, by the look of it. Exactly how we would have done it.”

“Show me,” Bramall said.

Reacher led him along the front porch, and the side porch, and around the corner to the back. Bramall took a good long look. He seemed impressed by the mildew. He said, “A year at least. Let’s say a year and a half. Why not? Let’s say this happened right after Porterfield died. Was it the sheriff? You told me he searched the place.”

“The sheriff had the keys,” Reacher said. “He found them in Porterfield’s pocket. That’s how they identified him, along with his teeth. So the sheriff didn’t need to break in. This was someone else, who didn’t have the keys.”

“Squatters, maybe.”

“They wouldn’t bust the kitchen window. The kitchen is a room they would want to use. They would have busted a window somewhere else.”

“Ordinary burglars, then.”

“Possible. We’ll know by how much mess they made.”

“We’re still going inside?”

“We were before,” Reacher said. “I don’t see why we shouldn’t now. This is practically an open invitation. We have a duty as citizens.”

“To call the sheriff, technically.”

“It’s a gray area. The owner is dead. There are no heirs. It’s a different situation. People read whole books about this kind of thing in law school. I’m sure the sheriff doesn’t want to get in a big long discussion. Plus this could be where she called her sister. Right here. When she said, shut up, Sy, I’m on the phone. Had to be his place or hers. Either way she spent time here. So you know we’re going in.”

“I know I am,” Bramall said. “But you’re under no obligation.”

“You looking out for me now?”

“I feel I ought to point out the legal downside.”

“I get it. You want me to go first. So you can say to yourself the worst thing you ever did was get all swept up. You want me to be the bad guy. Because you have scruples.”

“Not as such. What I have is a license from the state of Illinois. Which I would like to keep. Doesn’t matter who goes first. What matters is, it would count against me if I didn’t explicitly caution a junior partner against potential legal jeopardy.”

“Are we partners?”

“Effectively.”

“Junior and senior?”

“By age and experience.”

“Do you have to explicitly caution me every step of the way?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Let’s not do that part, OK? Let’s take it as read. More fun that way.”

“OK,” Bramall said. “You want fun, you go first.”

—

Bramall’s contribution was to stick his arm in through the hole in the glass and wind the window open with the inside handle. Reacher’s jacket was new, and his shirt was new. He didn’t want to smear either one of them with mildew, which he would if he pushed through the slit in the screen, like the original intruder or intruders must have, a year or more ago, back when the screen was clean. So he tore it out of its frame, all the way around, and folded it in a ragged square, and dropped it on the porch.

Best way into a kitchen was face down and feet first. Because of the countertop. You stood a chance of ending the maneuver standing on your feet, not your hands. But it was hard to set up. It required a contortion. Worse if there was a sink under the window, with a tap. Which could get to the wrong place at the wrong time. But Porterfield’s sink was on a different wall. Which helped. A little.

Reacher felt his legs swim free, and he jackknifed at the waist, and planted his feet, and pushed himself upright. Inside, looking out. The kitchen was a little weather-beaten, because of the hole in the glass, but it had started out expensive. That was clear. The wood was thick, and the granite was thicker. There were appliances made out of stainless steel. They all had clock screens, dark and blank. There was absolute silence. No subliminal hum, no rustle in the pipes. No power, no water. No one paying the bills. All closed up.